Grief by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless;
That only men incredulous of despair,
…Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air
Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness
…In souls as countries lieth silent-bare
…Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare
Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, express
Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death –
…Most like a monumental statue set
In everlasting watching and moveless woe
Till itself crumble to the dusts beneath.
…Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet:
If it could weep, it could arise and go.

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Three Kisses by Dennis Lange

Jeb Stuart, in the midst of war,
…Rode by his family.
While on his horse, he kissed his wife –
…Goodbye in brevity.

Mere two days later, he was dead,
…Kissed by a sniper’s bee.
It was a single touch that took
…Him to eternity.

Of Stuart, Sedgwick later said,
…“He ruled the cavalry.
He was the greatest officer
…That we will ever see.”

The bullet, kiss, the spoken praise
…Were each a single tick,
Upon the ages’ lumb’ring clock,
…From one life that we pick.

How quick a stroke a brush may make
…And change fore’er a hue
On which the wind will blow all day
…And fall, in mornings, dew.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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He Can’t Hit An Elephant by Dennis Lange

John Sedgwick, to his frightened men,
…“Why dodge a single bee?
What will you do in battle, boys,
…When swarms come after thee?” 

“At this range, e’en an elephant
…Would certainly be missed.
Why think ye then your rosy cheek
…Could possibly be kissed?” 

And he sat tall upon his mount
…To prove what he had said,
Until the sniper shot at him
…And Sedgwick fell down, dead.

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The ironic death of Major General John Sedgwick
of the Union army came on May 9, 1864 at the
Battle of Spotsylvania Court House in Virginia. 

http://www.civilwarhome.com/sedgwickdeath.htm

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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The Poets by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

…………………The Poets

O ye dead Poets, who are living still
…Immortal in your verse, though life be fled,
…And ye, O living Poets, who are dead
…Though ye are living, if neglect can kill,
Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill,
…With drops of anguish falling fast and red
…From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head,
…Ye were not glad your errand to fulfill?
Yes; for the gift and ministry of Song
…Have something in them so divinely sweet,
…It can assuage the bitterness of wrong;
Not in the clamor of the crowded street,
…Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng,
…But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.

 

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In Flanders Fields by John D. McCrae

In Flanders fields, the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead.  Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
…………In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe!
To you from failing hands, we throw
The torch – Be yours to hold it high!
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
…………In Flanders fields.

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